221B Ravenclaw Tower
by Transcendental Starlight
Summary: John and Sherlock are in their sixth year in 1990, the year before Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts. When John becomes the target of several attacks, Sherlock has to find the villain responsible before he or she is successful in putting John out of commission for good. No slash.
1. Chapter 1: Intrique on the Pitch

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the fabulous J.K. Rowling and Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan Doyle.**

**I never thought I would write a crossover, but this idea hit me and I couldn't shake it off. I have not seen any fanfictions or fanart where John and Sherlock are in the same house, so I put them both in Ravenclaw. Many thanks to my friend SK for her feedback and encouragement. Also, John and Sherlock's wandwoods reflect facets of their characters. If you are interested, check out the list of wandwoods and cores that was originally posted on Pottermore. Happy reading!**

"No, John."

"I haven't even asked you anything yet."

"You're going to ask me to come to your Quidditch match tomorrow, even though you know I abhor the sport and am extremely preoccupied with this analysis of poison potencies."

John snapped his mouth shut angrily when he realized it was hanging open. He sometimes wished Sherlock were skilled at occulemency, rather than just being the annoyingly-observant git he was almost 100% of the time.

"Please come, Sherlock."

"The addition of the world please does not make me any more inclined to attend," Sherlock stated as he added lavender to the infusion of wormwood and snake fangs brewing in his cauldron. A puff of blue smoke wafted slowly up from the mixture as he reviewed a sheet of paper covered with his messy scribble.

"It's a big match, Sherlock. We're facing Hufflepuff, and they're undefeated this season."

"Still not interested," Sherlock replied under his breath, though he knew John would hear him.

"It's our sixth year, and I'm captain of the team. In the all the time we've known each other, you've never come to a single match."

Sherlock placed his wand (sycamore and dragon heartstring, 33 centimeters) on the table and spun in his chair to face John for the first time.

"Why is it so important that I come?"

"Because you're my friend! And friends support each other, even if they don't enjoy the same things. I would like you to be there, Sherlock. Is that really too much to ask?" John shouted. Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then turned back to his cauldron.

"I'm too busy."

John let out a growl of frustration, walked around to the other side of the table, and placed his hands on top of Sherlock's notes, forcing his friend to look at him.

"I have a busy life too. My medical tests are at the end of this year and I'm taking extra classes for Healers, yet I still find time to help you solve cases. I blew Sarah off on Valentine's Day last year to figure out who was sending anonymous Howlers. We also missed the Halloween feast so you could figure out who had stolen Hagrid's pumpkins, only to find out the Thestrals had eaten them. And to top it all off, I spent all of Christmas day, after you convinced me to stay at school over break to keep you company, hunting down the extensive Weasley family's stolen sweaters. I think you owe me one lousy Quidditch match."

"The answer is still no, John."

John emitted a strangled sigh, but then a resigned look came over his face and his shoulders drooped. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Fine. Don't even know why I bother. Sorry for wasting your time." Sherlock didn't respond; he just kept adding newt tails to his potion. John looked down at his friend for a moment and then headed toward the boy's dormitories. At the foot of the stairs, John glanced back at Sherlock once more and then trudged up the stairs.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and stared off into the darkness of the empty common room. The silence didn't last long. Molly came down from the girl's dormitory a moment later, sporting a pair of cat pajama bottoms and a Puddlemere United t-shirt. Sherlock barely managed to smother a groan. Molly was in her fourth year and had an annoying tendency of turning up at the worst moments. The Hoopers were family friends of the Holmeses, so Sherlock tolerated her presence, to an extent.

Molly timidly approached Sherlock. "I couldn't help but overhear your and John's conversation," she started.

_I'm sure you couldn't_, he thought to himself.

Molly sat down at the table across from him. "Sherlock…well…um…you weren't being very nice," she blurted.

"I'm never nice," Sherlock responded, frowning at the watery consistency of the potion that was supposed to be custard-like at this point.

"Well, meaner than usual," Molly countered, giggling nervously. "Why won't you go to the match tomorrow?" Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"As I told John, I don't enjoy Quidditch and I am busy," he explained through clenched teeth.

"Do you think John enjoys the violin?" Molly asked unfazed by his tone.

"Tolerably well, why?" Sherlock replied, perplexed by the sudden change in topic.

"How many of your recitals has he gone to?"

"I've never noticed," he answered airily, suddenly realizing where this conversation was headed. Molly laughed.

"Sherlock, you are the most observant person I know, so I doubt you didn't notice. I've been to every single one, and I always see John there."

"I don't see the point of all this," Sherlock responded petulantly.

"At your last performance, John was running on three hours of sleep since you had kept him up all night solving a case. He missed dinner because of a class that ran late, and he had another full night of studying ahead of him for a Healers' Anatomy and Physiology exam the next day. Despite that, he stayed for the whole thing and didn't fall asleep once, at least not while you were playing." Sherlock stared grumpily at his cauldron. He could feel Molly's eyes on him.

"He does a lot for you, Sherlock, and all he's asking for in return is a few hours of your time. Sarah and I are heading to the pitch after lunch tomorrow. You're welcome to join us." With that said, Molly got up from the chair and walked back upstairs.

Sherlock cast one final disgusted look at his potion and then waved his wand over the mixture, causing it to disappear into thin air. He groaned inwardly then rubbed his eyes. Guilt was such a pointless emotion, a complete and utter waste of time and energy. Despite this, Sherlock could not deny the nature of the feeling that had crept up on him during his conversation with Molly. Sweet, quiet little Molly who had somehow found enough guts to lecture him on his behavior. What was the world coming to? Sherlock angrily picked up his cauldron and headed up to the boy's dormitory. Sometimes he hated having friends.

The next afternoon, Sherlock reluctantly found himself bedecked in Ravenclaw's colors and sitting in the bleachers of the Quidditch pitch. Molly sat on his right, talking animatedly with Sarah and several of her friends. John's girlfriend, though in Gryffindor, had borrowed one of Molly's scarves and bewitched her hair to change from blue to bronze and then back again. Now she was doing the same to Molly's locks.

"Want me to do yours too, Sherlock?" Sarah asked, waving her wand threateningly. Sherlock shot her a forced smile. John was always telling him to smile more, something about it making him look less like a serial killer.

"I'll pass."

Sarah shrugged and went back to talking to Molly. Sherlock stared morosely at the field and thought longingly of his cauldron sitting empty in the dormitory. What was he doing here?

The Ravenclaw crowd stood as one as Lee Jordan's voice echoed throughout the stadium. Molly pulled Sherlock into a standing position as well. Lee announced the Hufflepuff line-up and then Ravenclaw's team.

"_And for Ravenclaw, Chasers Sally Donovan and Roberto Argenian, Keeper Mitchell Vesper, Beaters Veronica Rowley and Charles Eppley, Seeker Patricia Neals, and team captain, John Watson!"_

Molly and Sarah let out ear-splitting cheers as John flew onto the field. Sherlock managed a genuine smile and a small clap. That title suited John.

After a few laps around the circumference of the pitch, John alighted on the ground. He shook hands with Hufflepuff's captain—a stocky fifth-year by the name of Dimmock—then both boys took off into the sky to join their teams. Madame Hooch blew her whistle, and the game began.

"_Donovan takes possession of the Quaffle, dodges a Bludger hit by Oakston, now she's gaining altitude trying to break free of Hufflepuff's Chasers, but no, she passes to Watson in a perfect Porksoff Play! Watson heads toward the goal posts—he shoots, he scores! 10-0 Ravenclaw!"_

The blue-clad Ravenclaw supporters leapt out of their seats, drowning out Lee's commentary and leaving Sherlock looking up in confusion at the fanaticism of his housemates.

"_Argenian scores on a reverse pass from Donovan. Hufflepuff takes possession and Markleby scores by faking out Vesper. Dimmock intercepts a pass from Argenian to Watson and scores again for Hufflepuff, tying up the match at 20-20. Argenian has possession once again; he's flying toward the hoops—and oh! That couldn't have been clean. And it's not. Madame Hooch calls a foul on Rowley for excessive force." _

The Ravenclaw supporters began to boo. "What are they complaining for?" Sherlock asked. "It was a flagrant foul." Sarah shot him a look of disbelief.

"Nobody cheers when their team commits a foul. We don't like to admit that we were in the wrong, a sentiment I am sure you can relate to," Sarah replied cheekily. Sherlock shot her an angry glare. "Besides, when do you know anything about Quidditch?" Sherlock pulled a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ from his robes.

"That's John's," Sarah observed, though she was really not surprised. Sherlock did not seem to comprehend the concept of ownership.

"I borrowed it from him last night."

"More like stole it, seeing as you two weren't on speaking terms last night," Molly remarked quietly. Sherlock scowled at her, while Sarah laughed. Sherlock reluctantly turned his attention back to the match.

"_And Calven takes the foul shot for Hufflepuff and earns another 10 points for the Badgers who take the lead. Watson has possession, breaks free of Hufflepuff's Chasers—man he's really flying on that Nimbus 1700—and he scores! Dimmock passes to Markleby, but he's intercepted by Donovan who passes to Watson, and Watson scores again! Captain Watson is on fire today!"_

Sherlock managed to keep up his feigned disinterest until 20 min into the game when John executed a one-handed Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a Bludger and then score, breaking the 130-130 tie. He jumped to his feet with Molly, Sarah, and the rest of the Eagle supporters. Mid-clap, Sherlock realized Molly and Sarah were staring at him in astonishment. He gave them a small grin in return.

10 minutes later, Ravenclaw had a 40-point lead, but Salvatore—Hufflepuff's Keeper—kept blocking everything Ravenclaw's Chasers threw at her. John had just gotten possession of the Quaffle when several things happened at once.

Out of the blue, a Bludger hit by Eppley changed course midflight and barreled straight for John's head. John just barely managed to dodge the Bludger and it slammed into Vesper's chest, knocking him off his broom. John dove after his fallen teammate and Madame Hooch had just begun to blow her whistle when Lee shouted, _"Neals has the Snitch! Neals has the Snitch! Ravenclaw wins, 320 to 130!"_

The applause from the Ravenclaws was deafening, but it slowly began to dissipate into worried murmurs as they noticed Watson and Vesper on the ground, surrounded by several professors. Dumbledore was waving his wand over the Keeper's prone form.

After several moments, Dumbledore conjured up a stretcher and headed off toward the castle, Ravenclaw's team trailing behind him. The stands began to clear and Sarah, Molly, and Sherlock followed the crowd out of the stadium.

"Did anyone else notice that Bludger change direction and come straight at John?" Molly asked.

"Yeah, I did. Thank god John has good reflexes," Sarah remarked. "I hope Vesper is alright."

"Nobody hit that Bludger, yet it was targeted at John," Sherlock stated. Molly looked at him in horror.

"Who would want to hurt John like that?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out."

"Look, I'm just as shaken up as the rest of you," Sarah started. "But there could be a hundred other explanations for this."

"I agree with Sherlock," Oliver Wood—the fourth-year captain of Gryffindor's team—said as he came up to join them. "Madame Hooch checks the equipment for tampering before every match, but in all my years playing Quidditch, I've never seen a Bludger act like that. Somebody wanted that Bludger to do damage."

"It still could have been an accident, or maybe a prank from some Hufflepuff student," Sarah said stubbornly.

"They would have had to spell the Bludger midflight. You have no idea how fast those things move when you're up in the air. That would take a considerable amount of skill," Wood explained.

"A feat I doubt most students are capable of performing," Sherlock added.

"Well," Sarah sniffed. "I am not going to jump to conclusions until I have more data, something you of all people should understand, Sherlock." She sped up to walk with her Gryffindor friends. Sherlock made a face at her retreating back. The three of them strode in silence into the entrance hall where Wood bid them goodbye. Molly and Sherlock headed up to the Ravenclaw common room to find Sarah waiting for them. Sherlock sat and stared at the fire, replaying the scene over and over in his mind, looking for anything he might have missed, while Sarah and Molly talked with some of the other Ravenclaws.

About an hour later, John and the rest of the team, minus Vesper, trudged into the common room. John cleared his throat and announced, "Mitchell is going to make a full recovery. He had three broken and two cracked ribs, as well as a collapsed lung. Dumbledore managed to stabilize him until we could get him to Madame Pomfrey. She worked her magic and he should be back in action by the end of the week. We'll be ready to crush Gryffindor in the next match of the season."

The Ravenclaws let out a shout of excitement, the tension in the room dissipated, and the victory party began in earnest. John smiled at the people who congratulated him on the win as he made his way to the couch. He plopped down exhaustedly between Sherlock and Sarah. Sherlock wordlessly handed him a cup of tea and several Pumpkin Pasties. John accepted them with a muttered, "Thanks."

Sherlock opened his mouth several times to barrage John with questions, but Sarah and Molly silenced him with a glance every time. John finished and looked up at his friends' expectant faces.

"He was in pretty bad shape down there," John said quietly, clenching his fists. "I was afraid he wasn't going to make it." Sarah rubbed his back and some of the tension dissolved from his shoulders as he leaned into her.

"Sherlock thinks the Bludger was meant for you," Sarah stated worriedly.

"That sounds like the freak. He has to see murderous intent in everything," Sally said as she walked up to their group. Sherlock scowled at her.

"I don't see how it could have been meant for anyone else, Sally," John replied firmly. "Mitchell and I were the only two people in that part of the pitch, and it came too close to me to have been meant for him."

"You mean to say that Bludger just decided to come zooming straight for your skull? Last thing I saw, Eppley had hit it towards Dimmock," Sally asked disbelievingly.

"That is exactly what we are suggesting, Sally, but if that is beyond your small powers of comprehension, then perhaps you should leave this to the rest of us," Sherlock said icily. Donovan moved toward him threateningly, but John held his hands up.

"That's enough you two. I know it sounds crazy, Sally, but it seems to be the case."

"Do you think someone tampered with it?" Molly asked.

"That's what the professors were saying," John said, running a hand through his hair. "They have to examine it more closely, but I don't see any other explanation."

"The question now is who would want you out of commission?" Sherlock stated. John turned to look at his friend.

"It wasn't anybody on Hufflepuff, that's for sure. The whole team looked crestfallen, and Dimmock's a decent fellow; he came into the hospital wing and apologized for a good ten minutes. I don't think they were responsible."

"What about somebody from Gryffindor?" Molly asked. "Or maybe Slytherin. They barely beat you this year. Maybe they thought you were a threat for the cup."

"Oliver may be a fanatic, but he wouldn't go so far as attempted murder to win. Flint's barely bright enough to tie his own shoes, so I doubt he could concoct a plan like this."

Sherlock let out a laugh at John's comment, which was entirely true.

"Yeah, but not all the Slytherins are that dumb," Sarah said, her eyes narrowing.

"Sarah, we all know how much you love Slytherin, so let's leave it at that," John replied kissing her cheek. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this display.

"So, we've got nothing," Sally stated.

"No," Sherlock corrected. "We know the spellcaster was skilled, he or she would have to be in order to charm a Bludger in midair. This rules out most of the younger students. The suspect is unlikely from Ravenclaw as it would be irrational to take out our own captain. Also, we know they either had to be present at the match or have an accomplice who was present at the match as the Bludgers passed Madame Hooch's pre-game inspection. And, in a few days time, we will have the nature of the spell cast on the Bludger. I would hardly call that nothing, Sally."

Sally shot him a look that clearly said, _one day you'll get what's coming to you_, and then walked away from the group to go talk to her Slytherin boyfriend, Anderson.

"Who let him in here?" Sherlock asked disgustedly looking over at the pair.

"Sherlock, leave it," John ordered wearily. "I am not in the mood to hear you belittle Anderson tonight." Sherlock frowned and sighed resignedly. Silence fell until John looked up to see Sarah and Molly staring at him with concerned expressions on their faces.

"Look, I'm not going to worry about this until we have more information. There's still a slim chance it was an accident. Can we please just enjoy the party?" John reasoned.

"Of course," Sarah replied, kissing John on the lips, eliciting another eye roll from Sherlock and cheers from the Ravenclaws who were looking for their fearless leader to join in the festivities.

Several hours later, the party had finally wound down. Sherlock had retreated to the safety of the dormitory long ago, and was reading over a spellbook. John collapsed onto his bed, which sat next to Sherlock's.

"That's a new record for you."

"Hmmmm?"

"You socialized for nearly two hours; you usually only last thirty minutes," John said turning onto his side to face his friend.

"Gold star for me," Sherlock replied, still intent on his book.

"Thanks for coming today."

"Of course. I couldn't pass up the chance to see you in all your glory," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Seriously, Sherlock. Thanks." Sherlock looked up from the pages and gave John a small, genuine smile.

"You're welcome. It wasn't an entire waste of my afternoon."

"Oh really?"

"No. I got a new case." John groaned.

"This does not become a case until we have more information, Sherlock. I don't want you and Molly and Sarah looking at me like I'm a dead man walking."

"Fine," Sherlock replied sulkily. "But when we discover it wasn't an accident…"

"If," John corrected. "If, we find out it wasn't an accident, you can pursue this mystery to your heart's content. Now, I am going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight John." John turned off the light and dove under the covers, placing his wand (cypress and unicorn hair, 26.5 centimeters) on the bedside table. A few minutes later, Sherlock spoke.

"I'm glad that Bludger didn't smash into your skull and blow your brains into the stands."

"Me too. Now goodnight for real," John replied unfazed.

"It would have created quite a mess, and I just bought this sweater," Sherlock added, grinning behind the pages of his book.

John responded by throwing his extra pillow at Sherlock's head. Sherlock began to chortle, quietly. John joined in and soon they were laughing so hard they were almost crying. They carried on like that until the other boys told them to shut up and go to sleep.

Both boys stifled their laughter and obeyed their classmates' command, worries pushed aside until the morning.


	2. Chapter 2: The Warning

**Many thanks to SK and snapemartyr for their feedback and suggestions!**

**I took some creative liberties with the mechanics for the doors guarding common rooms as Rowling never really explains they work. Enjoy!**

On Thursday morning, John and Sherlock were in the library working on one of Professor Snape's torturous essays. Sherlock had finished half an hour ago and was now loudly turning the pages of several library books—eliciting murderous glares from Madame Pince—while slowly pushing his scroll in John's direction. John pointedly ignored him until the essay had entirely covered up his own.

"Sherlock," he whispered angrily as he pushed the paper away. "I am not copying off you."

"But John," Sherlock whined. "I have witnessed Anderson's mind work faster than you are writing this essay."

"Unlike you, I am not a potions prodigy."

"I need a case, John," Sherlock replied, ignoring his friend's snarky reply. "Only two this entire semester, and we solved one on the train. This is the worst term ever."

"My heart bleeds for you," John said, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's melodramatics. "Why don't you go brew a draught or elixir or something?"

"Boring."

"Well, then, go practice turning handbags into hedgehogs for Transfiguration."

"Dull."

"Go explore that secret passage you and the Weasley twins found last week."

"Excellent idea, John. Let's go." John shot him a dark look.

"I am not leaving this seat until I finish. It is not my job to entertain you." Sherlock gave him a look of mock surprise.

"Why do I keep you around then?"

"I wonder that myself sometimes."

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a retort when his eyes lit up.

"Some intrigue at last," he murmured. John turned to see Professor Flitwick walking toward them.

"Mr. Watson," he stated. "I need you to come with me to the Headmaster's office at once." John hurriedly gathered his things, noticing Flitwick's grave expression. When John stood up, Sherlock did as well. Flitwick nodded in his direction.

"You may as well come too, Mr. Holmes."

The trio left the library and headed to the gargoyle statue that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's domain.

"Chocolate drizzle," Flitwick announced, and the gargoyle jumped aside as the wall behind it split open, revealing the moving spiral staircase that was by now a familiar sight for John and Sherlock. They followed their head of house up the stairs. Flitwick knocked on the door and Dumbledore's voice rang out, "Enter."

Even though they had been in Dumbledore's office many times throughout their careers at Hogwarts, John and Sherlock still looked around with wonder every time. It seemed the headmaster always had some new magical gadget on display.

Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Snape were standing behind Dumbledore who was seated at his desk. Flitwick went to stand with them while Dumbledore beckoned to the boys to sit down.

"Mr. Watson. Mr. Holmes. I wish I had called you in on pleasanter business, but alas, that is not the case." Dumbledore paused for a moment, looking at the two of them from over the lenses of his half-moon glasses. "I regret to inform you, Mr. Watson, but the Bludger that wounded Mr. Vesper, and which we can only assume was meant for you, was indeed cursed."

"With dark magic, I'm afraid," Flitwick added. "I put the protective charms on the equipment myself, and it would have taken a powerful witch or wizard to overcome them." John began to clench and unclench his hands. As if sensing his distress, Fawkes flew over and placed his head on John's shoulder.

"So there's no chance it was a freak accident?" John asked, while he slowly stroked Fawkes' feathers.

"Unfortunately, no," Dumbledore replied slowly.

"Your safety, Mr. Watson, is our top priority," Professor McGonagall stated. "We think it best you avoid the Quidditch pitch until we have sorted out this mess."

"No," John said firmly, shaking his head. "We would be disqualified; I can't do that to the team."

"Is Quidditch really worth losing your life over?" Professor Sprout asked incredulously.

"No, but letting down my team isn't an option."

"It seems to me," Sherlock piped up. "That the culprit would be foolish to attack John in the same manner as before. They know we will take precautions to ensure a similar attempt on John's life would fail."

"Do you have a better suggestion, Mr. Holmes?" McGonagall queried.

"I believe Mr. Holmes is suggesting we wait until Mr. Watson is attacked again," Snape stated slowly, speaking for the first time. Sprout and Flitwick looked at him in horror, while McGonagall just looked thoughtful.

"It would be an effective way to test if this was an isolated incident or if there is some darker purpose behind it all," she mused.

"Perhaps we should ask Mr. Watson what he thinks," Flitwick exclaimed angrily. "I will not risk my student's life on a whim." They all turned to John who answered immediately.

"I'll do it. I don't fancy hiding in a hole until this all blows over. Sherlock's right. We can't catch the person responsible until we have more information." The assembled professors nodded gravely.

"We shall not leave you completely unprotected, John," Dumbledore said, standing up from his chair. "Mr. Holmes, if you would wait outside for a few moments." Sherlock reluctantly trudged out of Dumbledore's office and loitered next to the gargoyle statue. John came down the steps after about ten minutes. Sherlock looked quizzically at his friend.

"That," John started. "Was the most intimidating and surreal experience of my entire life."

"What happened?"

"They all gathered in a circle with me in the center and started weaving these complex spells around me. I didn't recognize a word of it, but apparently it will shield me from most curses and some physical blows for a—"

John let out a yelp as Sherlock's jinx went whizzing past his ear.

"What was that for!?"

"I was testing your defenses," Sherlock replied calmly. "They work."

"Of course they bloody work! Look at who cast them!"

"Still," Sherlock sniffed. "One must be thorough." John just growled and continued walking. Sherlock proceeded to sporadically throw spells, quills, and wads of paper at John from different angles as they headed down the hallway. The defensive charms deflected all of them and John suffered the abuse in silence until Sherlock attempted to heave his Transfiguration text at him. John caught it and turned to face Sherlock.

"Enough," he hissed.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, climbing up the dizzying spiral staircase that led to the Ravenclaw common room. They reached the landing only to be met by a large crowd standing outside the door, which was ajar. The students turned as one when they heard John and Sherlock come up the stairs. They stared at John with a mixture of fear and pity in their eyes. John stiffened and a look of panic flashed across his face.

"What's happened?"

Molly came out of the crowd and pointed in the direction of the common room.

"Oh, John…I'm sorry…so sorry," she said unable to speak coherently through her tears. John raced through the doorway, Sherlock right on his heels. He pulled up short as he turned to the stairway leading to the boy's dormitory. Hovering above the archway, spelled out in cloudy, luminescent green letters, were the words, "Next time I won't miss, John Watson."

Professor Flitwick came barreling in a few moments later to find John trying to calm Molly down and Sherlock scrutinizing the ghostly writing. With Flitwick's help, Molly regained her composure and found her voice again.

"I was coming back from Ancient Runes to grab a few things before lunch and the door to the common room was open, which I thought was odd, but I was in a hurry so I went in anyway. The common room was empty, but then I turned and saw the message hovering there and I just froze. Some other students came in behind me and we all thought it best to wait in the hall, and then someone sent for you, professor, and then Sherlock and John came up, and…" Molly broke down into tears again, while John patted her shoulder.

Dumbledore and McGonagall strode in, and McGonagall let out a gasp of surprise at the sight of the threat.

"Prefects, please clear everyone out of the common room and into the hallway, excepting Miss Hooper, Mr. Watson, and Mr. Holmes. And someone please send for Professor Snape," Dumbledore ordered calmly.

He turned to Sherlock and John. "Two times in one day, gentlemen, that must be a new record," he joked, giving them a small wink, eliciting a weak smile from John. Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick began to examine the writing. Sherlock edged over to John who was leaning wearily against the fireplace mantel.

"Does that writing look familiar to you?" he asked.

"Sherlock," John sighed. "I'm not really in the mood to play guess-what-you've-deduced right now."

"The color and cloudy appearance don't remind you of anything?" John remained silent for a moment and then looked at Sherlock with sudden comprehension.

"The Dark Mark. Not that I've ever seen it in person, but that's how it looks in pictures."

"Exactly, but I find it very unlikely that a former Death Eater found his/her way into Hogwarts to leave you a threatening message."

"Who did it then?" John mused aloud.

"Haven't the foggiest at the moment," Sherlock replied, rubbing his hands together. John rolled his eyes at the look of excitement on his friend's face.

"Please do try to remember that someone may be trying to kill me," he muttered darkly.

"I know who did it," a voice stated from above the mantel. John, Sherlock, Molly and the professors looked up at the picture of Mrs. Hudson, the previous Ravenclaw head of house who had retired several years ago and now owned an apartment complex for Ministry officials.

"You saw the caster?" John asked. Mrs. Hudson nodded proudly.

"Yes, I did. I sometimes like to poke my head in to see how the tower's holding up. I stopped by this afternoon to gossip with Adriana Turner about something. All of the other portraits were empty, which isn't unusual around lunchtime since they like to go up to the painting of the satyrs' picnic on the second-floor landing. They always have such lovely sandwiches."

"The culprit, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupted somewhat testily.

"Oh right, sorry dear," she twittered. "Anyway, I saw that lovely Asian girl. She's always so polite to me. I think she's in her first year. She looked around to make sure she was alone. I pretended to be asleep in my frame. When I cracked my eyes open again, she was leaving that horrible message." Mrs. Hudson finished and looked down at John and Sherlock in concern.

"Well done, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied grinning. "Quick, John! You're good at remembering tedious things like people's names. Who fits that description?" John spluttered, but Molly saved him from answering.

"That would have to be Cho Chang, but she's so nice. I can't see her doing something like this."

"Find Miss Chang and bring her here immediately," Dumbledore ordered, addressing Donovan and the other Ravenclaw prefect in the hallway.

"Oh, and Sherlock, dear. Mycroft asked me to make sure you're eating regularly and taking your studies seriously," Mrs. Hudson added. Mycroft, a junior Ministry official, had taken up lodgings in Mrs. Hudson's complex. Sherlock scowled.

"You can tell my brother his concern is neither necessary nor looked for."

"Just do be careful, boys. And John, keep your chin up, dear. It will all be alright." John gave Mrs. Hudson a small grin and a nod.

A quarter of an hour later, Sally and the other prefect returned with Cho. She gasped when she saw the message, which still glowed with a sickening light.

"Miss Chang," Professor Flitwick said gravely. "May I see your wand?" Cho timidly handed it to her head of house. "_Prior Incantato_," he muttered. The assembled crowd let out a gasp as a miniature version of the smoky message floated out of Cho's wand. She looked at it in horror.

"I swear it wasn't me," she cried, tears welling up in her eyes. Dumbledore placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

"We are not accusing you of anything, Miss Chang. Did you enter the common room within the last hour or so?"

"Yes."

"Tell us what happened."

"I-I…was climbing the staircase to drop off some books before lunch. I told my friend Marietta to save me a seat. Then I got to the door and the knocker asked me what worships the moon but can't stand its light, and I answered werewolf and then…" Cho trailed off, looking panicked. "And then I can't remember anything else until I got to the Great Hall." Dumbledore shared a grave look with the other professors.

"You have to believe me; I didn't do it. I love Ravenclaw and our Quidditch team."

"We do believe you, Miss Chang," Flitwick replied soothingly.

"Albus, it sounds like the Imperius curse, but that can't be," McGonagall whispered, but John and Sherlock overheard her.

"This is most troubling, Minerva," he murmured in response. He turned to Flitwick. "Filius, please escort Miss Chang to the hospital wing. I would like Madame Pomfrey to see to her. Severus, please dispose of that message." Snape, who had come in several minutes previously, nodded and with a flick of his wand, the words vanished. Dumbledore spun to face John and Sherlock.

"Mr. Watson, would you like to rethink your earlier decision?"

"No, sir," John answered firmly. "I'd rather take my chances out there. I don't much fancy the idea of sitting cocooned in the dormitory for the rest of the term."

"Which current circumstances have proven is no safer than the rest of the school," Sherlock commented under his breath. A genuine flash of weariness passed over Dumbledore's face.

"As much as this situation troubles me, I think you are right. Hiding you won't solve the problem. This gives me a grave sense of foreboding, Mr. Watson. It would give me peace of mind if you were to avoid walking around unaccompanied." John gave a genuine smile at that.

"That shouldn't be a problem. Now that I'm Sherlock's new case, I doubt he'll give me a moment's peace," John answered. Sherlock was staring off into space and didn't respond to John's comment. Dumbledore smiled and then swept out of the room.

Some of the other students gave John encouraging pats on the back or words of comfort and then filed out to lunch. Molly hugged John and asked if he needed anything. He shook his head, and she hugged him again. She angrily turned to Sherlock, startling him out of his reverie.

"If you let anything happen to him to make your case more interesting, I will never forgive you," and then she marched out of the common room. The boys shared a moment of surprised silence.

"Well, shall we go to lunch?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not really hungry."

"Excellent. We can do some investigating then."

"What is there to investigate?"

"We need to find out who cast the Imperius curse on Miss Chang. I find it very odd that the door was hanging open when Molly got to the scene. Usually it closes right after a student enters, except for when—"

"There are other students on the stairway or landing," John finished. "Like when Sarah or Molly comes up behind us on the stairs. The door usually stays open." Sherlock looked a bit put off by the interruption but continued.

"Which means that someone had to be on the stairs or near the door when Molly came up, meaning she was on the landing at the same time as the true culprit."

"But she didn't see anything."

"Because she wasn't looking," Sherlock said as he dashed through the door.

Several statues of various famous witches and wizards lined stood outside in the corridor. Sherlock walked around them closely examining the ground and miming spell casting in the direction of the door.

"The person who cast the spell was most likely not a Ravenclaw, or they would have just entered the common room by themselves."

"Or maybe they were being clever. Trying to hide their tracks."

"A possible, but unlikely explanation. The caster would have needed to be in a hiding place out of sight of the stairs with a clear view of the door. There is only one statue that provides both," Sherlock explained, stopping to look behind the stone figure of Ptolemy.

"Look, John. Here in the dust. Footprints."

"Those were left by a girl's shoe." Sherlock looked at John in surprise. John frowned back.

"I'm not a complete idiot. The heel marks are small, like the heels on Mary Janes. Quite obvious, really." Sherlock looked at John in annoyance and then went back to examining the floor.

"So this eliminates roughly half the student body," John sighed.

"47.6% actually." John rolled his eyes. "In addition, she is roughly 150 to 170 cm tall, and she was crouching on her toes for most of her vigil."

"So we're looking for a short female who has a vendetta against me. That shouldn't be too difficult," he stated sarcastically.

"The next attack will give us more data," Sherlock replied, standing up.

"Let's just hope it's not successful," John added.

"It won't be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm on the case now, and I don't much want to have to face the combined wrath of Molly and Sarah if I let you get killed."

"I feel so reassured," John said flatly, but he was grinning. Sherlock shot John a look of fond annoyance, and they headed off to class, each hoping the culprit would not accomplish the message's promise.

**I know that Sherlock Holmes can identify a person's height by looking at footprints, but I figured young Holmes wouldn't have it down to an exact science yet, and I don't want to give away too many clues this early on, hence the range. Thanks for reading, and any feedback would be most appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3: Potions Problems

After their discovery, John and Sherlock headed in silence to the dungeons for a double session of potions with Slytherin. Professor Flitwick had offered to excuse John from class, but John had just shaken his head resolutely.

"Can't afford to miss it, but thanks, professor."

An hour into the class, Sherlock started wishing Flitwick had been more insistent. Usually, John was fairly proficient at Potions, not as skilled as Sherlock of course, but John had received an "exceeds expectations" in his O.W.L. Today, though, he was a mess. He had knocked over a vial of Lethe river water and a jar of ashwinder eggs. Earlier in the class, his restorative draught had emitted a noxious gray smoke instead of the desired purple sparks, eliciting a loss of ten points from Ravenclaw in addition to the five Snape had taken earlier for the dropped ingredients.

Sherlock had been whispering the steps needed to salvage the potion, but, by the end of class, John's cauldron contained a navy blue semi-solid concoction that looked nothing like the desired result. Snape began his routine sweep of the room, doling out negative comments to the Ravenclaws and praising the Slytherins. Sherlock knew his potion was perfect, but John was staring down as his desk, boring holes into the wood with his eyes. Snape came over and peered into John's cauldron.

"Well, well, Mr. Watson. You want to be Healer, yet you can't even brew a simple draught of restoration. How unfortunate. You may want to reconsider your career pathway. Fifteen points more from Ravenclaw, I think." All of the Ravenclaws stared at Snape with hate in their eyes, while John kept his cast downward. Snape nodded at Sherlock's cauldron and then glided away to the next desk. Sherlock sighed inwardly. He and Snape had a mutual respect for one another, and Snape liked Sherlock as much as he possibly could, considering Sherlock was not a member of his house. Alas, all good things must come to an end.

"That hardly seems fair. John has one bad day and suddenly he should toss aside his dreams of becoming a Healer? What's that you've got in your cauldron, Anderson? You don't have the excuse of a death threat hanging over you head, yet you've managed to make a right mess of things as usual. What color would you say that is, John? Mustard yellow? Last time I checked, restorative draughts were supposed to be sky blue."

Snape, and the class as a whole, froze. John stared up at Sherlock in disbelief. Snape slowly turned around.

"What was that, Mr. Holmes?"

"I just find it fascinating, professor, that Anderson never fails to produce putrid potions, yet his pathetic efforts continue to earn points for Slytherin. I've heard of trolls with more talent." Anderson sprang out of his chair, gripping his wand tightly. John and Sherlock responded in turn.

"Enough," Snape said, raising his voice infinitesimally. All three boys reluctantly sat down, shooting daggers at each other with their eyes.

"Twenty more points from Ravenclaw. You boys may soon set a record for most points lost in a single class. In addition, you and Mr. Watson will both be serving detention with me Saturday evening." Sherlock made as if to object, but John slowly shook his head and Sherlock backed down.

The end of class saved them from further punishment. Anderson shot them a look burning with malice as he stormed out of the classroom.

"One day he is going to snap and come after both of us."

"I'm not too worried. Have you seen his aim?"

John chuckled softly, and the two walked in silence for a bit.

"That was…what you did back there…it was…thanks," John stated rather awkwardly, shooting Sherlock a look of gratitude. "Although, as we speak, Snape is probably obliterating your name from his good books with a knife." Sherlock waved away the thanks.

"I never like to pass up an opportunity to harass Anderson, and being in the good books is rather dull."

"Yeah, but so is detention."

"We'll find a way out of it." John let out a snort.

"I doubt even the Minister of Magic could get us out of this one. But maybe Mycroft could grant us an audience," John jokingly mused.

"We are not asking for my brother's help," Sherlock replied sulkily.

"Snape's probably going to make us clean up the mess the first years make on Friday," John groaned. "They always turn the storage cupboards into disaster zones." Sherlock grunted in assent.

Upon reaching the Great Hall, the boys tossed their bags onto the table and sat down heavily. John stared mournfully at his wizard-made watch.

"I'm starving, and dinner's not for another ten minutes." Sherlock chuckled softly.

"What?"

"Your appetite's back, which means you must be feeling better."

"Great deduction. I would rather start every morning with a death threat than face Snape's wrath again, and all of this adrenaline makes me hungry." Sherlock let out a snort of amusement. Sarah interrupted their banter by running up to them and throwing her arms around John.

"Are you all right?" she asked, pulling back and looking into John's face intently.

"I'm fine," John replied, squeezing her hand. "A little shaken up, but that's to be expected." Satisfied for the moment, Sarah turned and gave Sherlock a much less enthusiastic, but sincere hug. Sherlock froze and shot John a look of bewilderment. John just shrugged.

"And you," Sarah stated after releasing Sherlock. "I heard about how you stood up for him in Snape's class. Brilliant."

"Word travels that quickly, eh?" John observed. Sherlock was still staring at Sarah as if she had lost her mind.

"Of course," Sarah answered. "I wish I could have been there. The look on Snape's face. And Anderson! I bet he didn't take too kindly to your calling him a troll, although you're really just stating the obvious."

"Exactly. If he doesn't want to be compared to a troll, he shouldn't act like one," Sherlock sniffed.

"Speak of the devil," John murmured as Anderson and Donovan strode into the Great Hall. Sally shot them a look of disdain, while Anderson pointedly ignored them as they went to sit down at the Slytherin table.

"She's not going to be pleased at practice this weekend," John sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Her life would be a lot simpler if she wasn't dating the biggest idiot in the school," Sarah commented.

"Anderson's really not that bad. He can be quite nice," Molly piped in as she joined them. Sarah, John, and Sherlock looked at her as if she had just said being a Squib was not the worst fate that could ever befall someone. Molly looked a bit cowed and quickly changed the subject.

"Any news from the professors about the message, John?"

"That's right," Sarah said, swatting John on the arm. "I had to hear about that from Oliver and then I worried about you all afternoon because Merlin forbid you tell your girlfriend about threats on your life."

"I'm sorry. I meant to come and find you, but Sherlock and I were investigating and then we had Potions and…At last!" John exclaimed as food magically appeared on the tables. Sarah rolled her eyes, but let the matter rest as John began heaping food onto his plate. Sherlock ignored the spread, eyes narrowed as he scanned the Great Hall instead.

"You're not hungry, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"I'm looking for suspects."

"But you've got nothing to go on," Sarah stated.

"We're looking for a girl," John said in between large bites of food.

"Oh really?"

"Yes, Sarah," Sherlock snapped. "We found a shoeprint in the dust outside Ravenclaw Tower by a statue that would have provided the real culprit with the perfect position from which to cast the Imperius curse on Miss Chang."

"Cho was Imperisued?!" Molly squeaked.

"Dumbledore and McGonagall seem to think so, and it would make sense," John added as he began to spoon more food onto a second plate, which he then pushed in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock glanced at it disdainfully and then went back to searching the crowd.

"Sherlock."

"I'm on a case, John."

"Yes, and as your client, I demand that you eat so you can dedicate your full faculties to the task."

"I don't need food to use my full faculties."

"Sherlock, I have enough on my plate without having to worry about you passing out from hunger. Just eat," John hissed through gritted teeth. Sherlock sighed dramatically and picked up his fork. Minutes later, the food was gone.

After both dinner and dessert had disappeared, Dumbledore stood up and a hush automatically fell over the room.

"As many of you know, a sinister message was left in Ravenclaw Tower today. That message threatened harm to Mr. John Watson. I hope this is nothing more than a prank, and if it is, I advise the instigator to cease immediately and turn him or herself in. If any of you have any information, please speak to me or your head of house," Dumbledore finished solemnly, and after a moment's pause he smiled at the assembled students. "On a lighter note, congratulations to the Hogwarts choir for their win at the Magical Music Festival last weekend. I heard they were marvelous." Dumbledore paused for the scattered applause. "And now, I will bid a good evening to you all."

John had sat very straight during Dumbledore's announcement, eyes riveted on the headmaster, ignoring the hundreds of faces turned toward him. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked around at everyone, scowling heavily at those who stared at John with insensitive curiosity. Now that he had finished speaking, students began slowly filing out of the Great Hall, shooting the occasional glance at the Ravenclaw table. Mike Stamford and Greg Lestrade—a Hufflepuff studying to be a Healer and Hufflepuff Head Boy, respectively—sat down in the now vacant spots across from the group.

"Bloody hell, John. What's all this about death threats?"

"No idea, Greg. Just walked up to the common room to find 'Next time I won't miss, John Watson' hovering in the air."

"First the Bludger and now this? Do you think they're connected?" Mike asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, eliciting an elbow in the ribs from John.

"It seems like it, but we don't have any real proof yet."

"So, what do you think, Sherlock? This seems right up your alley," Lestrade queried.

"Yes, quite." Sherlock answered stiffly. He liked Lestrade well enough—the boy had even helped them out on several cases—but a future Auror ought to have better developed deductive abilities. "We know the suspect is a short female. She is most likely not from Ravenclaw, as she used the Imperius curse on Miss Chang to gain access to the tower and leave the message."

"Unforgiveable curses at Hogwarts. They'll be sending Ministry officials to investigate at this rate," Mike whistled.

"And here they come now," John murmured, staring at the doors. Sherlock turned his head to follow John's gaze.

"You cannot be serious. Mycroft, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked disgustedly as his brother and two Ministry goons came up to them.

"Well, my dear brother, I'm here to inquire about the incident that occurred earlier today."

"The case is under control, so keep your bureaucratic nonsense out of Hogwarts and go back to London."

"If that were true, I wouldn't be here. Did Mrs. Hudson give you my message?"

"Yes, and it seems she is feeding you too well. You must have gained at least five pounds since I last saw you." Mycroft smiled frostily at Sherlock and then turned to John.

"John, always a pleasure. I need to go and speak with Professor Dumbledore, but afterward I would appreciate a moment of your time."

"Of course," John replied, nodding. Sherlock stared daggers at Mycroft's retreating back.

"That bloke's your brother? He's much nicer than you. Seems he got all the charm in the family," Lestrade observed. Sherlock just glared at him.

"Mycroft's charming on the surface, yes, but he's the type who'd be plotting how to have you killed while pouring you a cup of tea. Sherlock's probably the only person who can screw with him and not end up with a bullet in his brain." Mike, Lestrade, and Molly looked at John in confusion.

"And not end up dead. Sorry, it's a Muggle figure of speech," John explained.

While they waited for Mycroft's return, John, Sarah, Mike, Molly, and Lestrade started talking about Quidditch, while Sherlock ignored them. He was startled out of his reverie when Cho came up to them.

"Cho, how are you feeling?" Molly asked.

"Fine. A bit embarrassed really. Everyone's making such a fuss."

"Not everyone's subjected to dark magic like that, especially not nowadays," Sarah remarked. "They're just worried."

"I suppose so, but it wasn't my life being threatened." Cho turned to John. "Captain Watson, I just wanted to apologize. I know I wasn't myself, but I still feel terrible and I hope you won't hold it against me at Quidditch tryouts next year." John chuckled.

"It wasn't your fault, so stop worrying about that. I will most definitely not hold it against you. What position do you play?"

"Seeker."

"Neals is leaving after this year, so we will be needing a new Seeker. I look forward to seeing you fly, Miss Chang." Cho's face split into a gigantic grin.

"Thank you, Captain. I'll see you around." Cho made to leave.

"Miss Chang," Sherlock called and Cho turned around. "Did you happen to see anyone when you were attacked."

"No," Cho replied, her face falling. "The professors asked the same thing, but no, I didn't."

"Did you hear anything? A voice uttering the spell?"

"No, sorry. There was nothing as far as I remember, but if anything comes to me I'll let you know."

Sherlock stared after her thoughtfully. John turned to his friend with a questioning look in his eyes. Sherlock met his gaze. "Nonverbal spell," Sherlock uttered.

"What?" Molly asked.

"Cho didn't hear anything, but she was alone in the hallway, so she should have been able to make out a voice casting the spell. That means the curse could have been nonverbal," John explained.

"Which would require a considerable mastery of magic, something most students would not be capable of," Sherlock added.

"Then how did they get into the school?"

"That is the question, John," Sherlock replied thoughtfully.

"The way you two feed off of each other is ridiculous," Sarah commented.

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed. "Bit spooky actually." Before Sherlock could respond with a scathing comment, Mycroft returned.

"John, could I have a word in private."

"Anything you need to say to John you can say in front of all of us," Sherlock stated, crossing his arms. Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Very well. It appears that someone means to do you very serious harm, John."

"As if that wasn't obvious," Sherlock mumbled.

"We would like to provide you with security since you insist on remaining at Hogwarts, rather foolishly I might add."

"While I appreciate the gesture, Mycroft, I can't accept it."

"I think you are underestimating the severity of your situation."

"You know, I really don't think I am. Someone would like to see me dead and has already tried to kill me with a Bludger. I know what's at stake, but I'm not willing to sacrifice my education for this lowlife," John argued, his eyes flashing dangerously. Sarah put a hand on his arm, and John calmed down a bit.

"If those are your feelings, then I suppose there is nothing I can do. Are you sure I can't convince you to accept?" Mycroft asked.

"Positive. I trust Dumbledore and the staff to handle this. Thank you, though, Mycroft. Truly."

"Very well. Good luck, John. Until next time, Sherlock. Good evening, Miss Hooper, Miss Sawyer, Mr. Lestrade, Mr. Stamford." Sherlock frowned until the doors of the Great Hall closed behind his brother.

"How did he know my name?" Lestrade asked worriedly.

"Mycroft just knows things," Molly sighed, used by now to the Holmes boys' dramatics.

"Well, now that my brother is done wasting our time, how about a game of wizard's chess back in the common room?" Sherlock asked.

"If you're in the mood to lose," John replied, grinning. "How many times have you beaten me again?"

"Three," Sherlock reluctantly mumbled. John looked at him sternly. "Alright. Twice. I cheated the third time." Mike and Lestrade grinned, while Molly and Sarah laughed out loud.

"We'll see you later, John," Lestrade stated, clapping John on the back as he got up to leave. "Mike and I will keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"We're here for you, mate," Mike added, standing up as well.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Have a good night," Molly shouted after them. Lestrade turned and smiled back at her, causing Molly's face to turn a bright cherry red. The four of them stood up. Sarah and Molly let Sherlock and John get a bit ahead of them before launching into conversation.

"Doesn't Sherlock hate wizards chess?" Sarah asked quizzically.

"Absolutely abhors it," Molly replied. "Usually John has to either beg or threaten him to play."

"This is most unlike him. Should we be concerned?" Sarah queried. Molly laughed.

"We both tell Sherlock to be nicer to John, and then we freak out when he does just that."

"I'm not freaking out. I'm just surprised. Just when you think you have him figured out, Sherlock goes and throws you for a loop. I don't know how John stands it." Sarah added. Molly giggled again.

"Life is never boring with those two."

The remainder of November and the first part of December passed without incident. Potions with Snape became a nightmare now that both John and Sherlock had fallen out of his good graces. Ravenclaw's chances of winning the House Cup grew slimmer every week. The Quidditch Cup began to seem obtainable, though. The match against Gryffindor went down without any near death encounters. Ravenclaw won by such a large margin Wood couldn't look John in the eye for a week.

The first trip to Hogsmeade had come and gone, although Sherlock had been forced to spend most of the trip with Mike Stamford. John had been out with Sarah, Molly, and Lestrade on some sort of "double date," which sounded miserably dull to Sherlock, but no one ever asked him. At least at the end, they had all met up in the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer, making the day somewhat enjoyable.

John had spent the first two weeks of December preparing for his preliminary Healer exams. The combination of stress and being cooped up in the school with a bored Sherlock had resulted in several spats between the two of them, one escalating to the point that John and Sherlock had stopped talking to each for four days.

Now, tests over, Sherlock and John found themselves sitting in the common room the night before Christmas break, staring at the fire.

"I don't understand why I can't just stay here for vacation," Sherlock complained for the umpteenth time that day.

"Because your parents want to see you. You can't stay at school every year."

"Mother wouldn't have insisted I return home if you had only agreed to stay with me. She and father like you for whatever reason." John ignored the insult.

"I want to go and see my family, and Harry's invited us to Clara's ranch after Christmas."

"How tedious."

"Quit your grumbling. There's no getting out of it now. You can always come visit me. My dad will be pleased to see you."

"Your father is an excellent man."

"Even if he is a Muggle?" Sherlock shot John a look.

"You know I have no prejudice against Muggles. They've invented lots of clever things. The scientific method, electricity, microscopes, trains."

"He's always asking about you when I go home. He likes to hear about our cases."

They fell into silence for several minutes.

"Well, I'm going to head up," John said, getting up stiffly from his armchair.

"Me too." Sherlock followed suit, standing up gracefully like always, eliciting an eye roll from John. The boys headed up to the dormitory. Their floor was deserted, as most of their classmates had left early. John finished packing, while Sherlock eyed his half-empty trunk with disgust. John looked over his shoulder at his friend as he pulled the sheets back on his bed and began to climb into it.

"Staring at it will not—what are you—" John yelled as Sherlock yanked him away from the four-poster, the bed bursting into flames milliseconds later. John and Sherlock stared at the blaze for a moment before John shook himself and shouted _Aguamenti_! Sherlock joined in, but the fire just burned brighter. Finally, Sherlock rushed to his trunk, pulled out a flask of purple liquid, and threw its contents on the bed. The flames died instantly.

"What was that?"

"A creation of mine. I guess it works."

"You guess?"

"Well, I've never tried it before. It's designed to combat extreme blazes, which I seem to cause fairly often. After I almost burned your broom that one time, I thought I should have some way to extinguish them."

"Well, good thing you did," John replied surveying his charred and still-smoking bed. "Looks like our would-be killer didn't disappear after all. I was just starting to hope this had all blown over."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock replied, staring at the bed. Grabbing a vial from his trunk, Sherlock carefully scraped some residue from what remained of the four-poster into it and held it up to the light.

"What's in there?"

"Fireseed powder. Highly flammable. It combusts instantly upon the addition of even a small amount of heat. The body heat from your hand resting on the bed for a second was enough to set it off. Its inactive form is useful in potions, but its active form is difficult to acquire. Snape only uses it for certain concoctions and in very specific amounts. I know for a fact he hasn't ordered any this year, nor does he have any in storage."

"So it's looking more and more likely that our culprit is outside of Hogwarts," John reasoned.

"Yes, but they must have an accomplice inside the school."

"Or they're using Polyjuice Potion or some other means of disguise."

"Possibly, but that seems unlikely. Anyway, you should be safe for tonight at least. I doubt they'll strike again," Sherlock concluded.

"What if they come to make sure the job's done?"

"I don't think they'd risk it. They're too clever for that. Besides, I'm a light sleeper. I'll hear anyone who tries to break in."

"You're a light sleeper? I seem to remember a time when you slept through an entire Quidditch victory party in the common room," John stated, somewhat exasperatedly.

"I was severely exhausted. That doesn't count."

"I'm going to cast a few protective spells, just in case."

"Probably a good idea," Sherlock replied as he slid into his own bed, after checking to make sure it was fireseed-free. When he was done spellcasting, John turned from the doorway and looked around at the dormitory. Sherlock sighed.

"Would you like to take my bed as yours is in no fit shape for use?"

"Oh no," John answered, shaking his head vehemently. "That's the last thing people need to hear. Me sleeping in your bed."

"Good because I didn't want to give it to you."

"I'll just kip on one of the other lad's beds. Thank you, though," John added as an afterthought.

"Mmhm," Sherlock replied, eyes closed. John slipped into the other bed next to Sherlock's, furthest from the door. Sherlock waited several minutes until John's breathing evened out—_honestly, even a near death experience couldn't keep his friend from sleep_—and then he swung out of bed. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from his dressing gown pocket and walked over to the ruined four-poster. He searched for a few seconds and then gave a triumphant grin. He used the tweezers to pick up a single blond hair, placing it in another vial. Their would-be killer had slipped up. The game was on.

**Sorry for the very long wait for this chapter. And thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and followed! It was some excellent motivation.**


	4. Chapter 4: Correspondence

_John, 15 December 1990_

_Life at home is unbearably hateful. I find all of these holiday festivities most distasteful. Between mother, father, and Mycroft's inquiries about my health, schooling, and plans for the future, I've not had a moment's peace. We should have stayed at Hogwarts._

_-SH_

Sherlock, 16 December 1990

After nearly burning to death in my own bed, I disagree. We've been on break for a day, so you cannot be miserable already. Quit being so melodramatic and chin up. Only 21 more days to go.

-JW

_John, 17 December 1990_

_21 days is an eternity. I am likely to go mad before they are up. If my family drives me to an early grave, I bequeath my skull to you. And all of my potion supplies. And Madame Curie, though you must remember to only feed her the expensive owl treats. She's quite picky. I probably should draft an official will at the rate things are going. Mycroft tried to engage me in a game of Gobstones yesterday. Gobstones, John! What a ridiculously dull pastime. I am not sure he and I are actually related._

_-SH _

Sherlock, 18 December 1990

Oh, you two are definitely related. Besides the physical resemblance, you both have terrifying powers of deduction, a total lack of sentiment, and no consideration for the feelings of others. You are far too generous in terms of passing on your worldly possessions. I've always wanted an antique skull. And of course I will take care of Madame Curie. She and Sig get along quite well.

-JW

P.S. Gobstones is bloody awful.

_John, 19 December 1990_

_Your sarcasm was practically oozing out of that last letter. I needed a napkin to wipe it off my hands. And I resent your putting Mycroft and me at the same level in terms of deductive abilities. I am capable of considering other's feelings. I declined to comment on Molly's outfit when she went out with you, Sarah, and Lestrade. The plunging neckline made her motives quite obvious._

_-SH_

Sherlock, 20 December 1990

My mistake. I should have clarified that Mycroft's deductive abilities are far superior to yours. That was quite foolish of me to portray you as equals. Molly's neckline was not plunging; it was tasteful. And it worked because she and Lestrade are meeting up over break for tea.

-JW

Sherlock, 21 December 1990 And now you are not responding to me. I'm sorry. What I said in my last letter was uncalled for. You know I didn't really mean it. You are infinitely more intelligent than Mycroft.

-JW

_John, 22 December 1990_

_I do not understand why you think I would be bothered by the contents of your letter, but apology accepted. By the way, I sent the hair I found to Lestrade. He has a cousin in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's going to take a look and see if she can discover any more information on our would-be killer, though it may take a while. My parents are insisting I journey with them to our lodge in the Alps for our annual ski trip that I have managed to avoid for the past few years. You wouldn't care to come, would you? My parents mentioned I could invite you, and it might be SLIGHTLY more tolerable if you came._

_-SH_

Sherlock, 23 December 1990

A DNA test would probably be quicker, but I doubt many witches and wizards are on the record. And this settles it. Forget the ski trip and come with me to Clara's ranch. Dad and Clara are on board, and Harry even reluctantly agreed to your joining us. I give you permission to milk the attempts on my life for all they are worth when convincing your parents to let you go. We'll pick you up on the 26th at 9:00 in the morning. And we're taking the car. My dad's not too fond of Floo powder.

-JW

_John 24 December 1990_

_My parents have approved of our plan. Mother gushed on and on about you for several minutes and then said, "Of course you can spend the rest of break with the Watsons. You should be there for John in his time of need." I think she wants to adopt you. I suppose this means I shall have to comment on the scenery and try not to engage in a shouting match with Harry._

_-SH_

Sherlock, 25 December 1990

Happy Christmas!

Mercifully, Harry is not driving with us. It will be just you, dad, and me. Please thank your mother for the jumper. It's quite dashing, but I have a feeling she spent far too much money on it. And the Quidditch gloves are fantastic. I'm impressed that you went into Spintwitches without bursting into flames, since you usually avoid it like the plague. Anyway, do try to enjoy your Christmas, and be nice to your family. I'll see you tomorrow!

-JW

_John, 25 December 1990_

_I shall do my best seeing as it is the holidays. I played Mycroft in Wizard's Chess today, though I soundly defeated him. I am glad you like the gloves; it was quite a trial for me to enter that cesspool of sport and buy them for you. I like the self-tuning resin you got from Dominic Maestro's. It works very well. As for Cluedo, my parents found in quite intriguing, as they have never seen a Muggle board game before. I, on the other hand, was not amused. I look forward to the hour of our departure tomorrow. Happy Christmas, John._

_-SH_

**A bit of a mellow chapter. I wanted to experiment with the letter format, as John and Sherlock would obviously not have texting. Their owls must get quite a workout. Thank you for all the follows, favorites, and words of encouragement! **


	5. Chapter 5: A Temporary Respite

Sherlock stepped out of the car, closing the passenger door behind him gratefully. The three-hour ride had felt much longer since John and his father had sung along to every song on the radio, making up the words if they weren't familiar with the tune. Now, all Sherlock wanted was silence and solitude.

For the present moment, it seemed he was to have neither, as Clara and Harry had come out to greet them. Harry, minus the usual stench of alcohol, hugged her father and then subjected John to a smothering embrace.

"Get off me, Harry."

Clara gently edged between the two siblings, giving John a hug of her own. Harry turned to Sherlock, narrowed her eyes slightly, and then—as if realizing this was rude—forced the corners of her mouth into an insincere smile.

"Sherlock."

"Harry."

Again, Clara interjected herself into the middle before things could escalate.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she stated, extending her hand, which Sherlock took.

"Charmed. Could you show me to my room now?"

Clara looked slightly taken aback, but quickly recovered her composure.

"Of course. You've had a long ride. This way."

The group marched through a light accumulation of snow to the house. Two large wooden stables lay about 200 meters to their left and a wood fence ran down the length of the drive to their right, enclosing a vast open field that merged into a forest about 500 meters in.

Clara saw Sherlock eyeing the fence skeptically and explained, "It's more for show than to keep the hippogriffs in. They stick to their territory. They've got plenty of room for hunting and flying."

A white hippogriff came up to the fence and Clara went over and stroked its beak. The creature closed its eyes and nuzzled at her shoulder.

"This is Malcolm. I rescued him from a hippogriff fight club in Romania a couple years ago. He's one of my biggest success stories."

"What is it exactly that you do here?" Sherlock asked, curiosity overcoming—for the moment—his desire to be alone in his room.

"I breed and rehabilitate hippogriffs. This is a sanctuary of sorts for abused griffs, but I raise them for work on farms or as mounts for customers. But I won't sell a griff to just anyone. They have to give off the right vibe," Clara explained.

"Clara's very good at reading people," Harry added, putting her arm around her girlfriend's waist.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and they continued on. The house was a modest two-story farmhouse painted a light buttery yellow. The interior was decorated tastefully with a rustic charm. Sherlock and John had bedrooms across the hall from each other on the second floor.

While Sherlock retreated to the solitude of his room, John raced downstairs to join his family, shouting back at Sherlock, "We'll be outside."

Sherlock didn't bother responding, instead breathing in the quiet of the house. Now he could finally dedicate some time to that monograph on identifying poisons.

Several hours later, Sherlock heard the rest of the party come in and begin to make dinner. He tuned out the noise until—over the clamor of pots and pans—he heard his name mentioned.

"Sherlock seems like an interesting fellow," Clara said. Harry let out a snort.

"That's one word for it."

"Lay off, Harry," John snapped.

"What? I'm just being honest. He is an interesting fellow."

"We all know what you really mean. He gets enough of that rubbish at school. He doesn't need it here too."

"What word would you use to describe him then? Mental? Unhinged? Freakish?

"I think you want to shut it right about now, Harry," John replied through gritted teeth.

"That's enough," Dr. Watson said calmly but forcefully. "You two are far too old for this."

Silence reigned for a few moments, and then Clara smoothly transitioned to a safer topic.

"So, John, how are you and Sarah doing?"

Sherlock stopped listening at this point, not in the least bit interested to hear John go on about his girlfriend.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John standing in the doorway.

"Supper's ready. You're coming down."

"I suppose if I must."

"You must. And play nice with Harry. She's on edge today."

"Yes, I heard."

"Sorry for that."

"Why? It's not your fault."

"No, but she's my sister, and I feel partially responsible for her stupidity."

After dinner—which passed without incident, as Sherlock and Harry had avoided any kind of interaction—Dr. Watson suggested charades. Sherlock attempted to make a break for it, but John caught him by the back of his sweater and plopped him down in one of the large armchairs, shooting daggers at him if he even raised himself a centimeter from his seat.

At first, Sherlock just watched. He rolled his eyes at John's attempts to portray a phoenix—it looked more like a chicken—held back a smile during Dr. Watson's impersonation of a mermaid, and frowned at Harry's crude imitation of a giant. Clara had them all stumped, though, until Sherlock shouted out, "Bowtruckle." Upon guessing correctly, he was forced to have a turn. After that, he kept his mouth shut.

The next morning, John barged into Sherlock's room, throwing two sweaters and an overcoat at him.

"Get dressed and let's go."

"Go where?" Sherlock mumbled, turning his back on John and pulling the covers up over his face.

"Riding."

"I don't think so."

"Come on, Sherlock. It'll be fun."

"Nothing you say will convince me that climbing on the back of a demented horse/bird hybrid is 'fun.'"

"I didn't invite you here so you could mope around inside all day."

"Really? Why did you bring me along then?"

John frowned, marched over to the bed, and then pushed Sherlock out of it. Sherlock angrily sprang to his feet.

"Oh, look. You're up. Might as well come with me then."

"I hate animals."

"Just think of it as an experiment. One day, I'm sure it will help you solve a case. But don't mess with the hippogriffs. Clara may look sweet and harmless, but remember, she's dating Harry."

"Fine."

"If you're not downstairs in five minutes, I'm dragging you down myself," John shouted back as he walked out of the room.

Exactly fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds later, John and Sherlock were standing in front of the paddock with Clara.

"You two ready?" The boys nodded. "Alright then." Clara let out a bizarre cry somewhere between a whistle and a whinny. Less than a minute later, two hippogriffs came trotting out of the woods and up to the fence.

"The tawny female on the right is Beatrice and the black female is Hero. John, why don't you have a go with Hero?"

John slowly opened the gate, maintaining eye contact as he bowed to the imposing ebony hippogriff. After several tense seconds, she returned the gesture, allowing John to stroke her beak.

"Very good," Clara said, beaming. "Your turn now, Sherlock."

Sherlock went through the same motions as John and was pleasantly surprised when he was rewarded with a bow from Beatrice. He was even more taken aback when she nudged his arm, looking for attention, which he gave.

"You're a natural. And John said you weren't an animal person."

"I'm not. This is an unusual occurrence."

"Would you guys like to ride?"

"Yes," John said, as Sherlock simultaneously uttered a vehement, "No."

"Come on, Sherlock. Live a little," John said as he climbed on top of Hero's back. Sherlock sighed and then followed suit. He looked over at John who gave him a questioning stare.

_Ready?_

Sherlock nodded, and, in a blur of feathers, they launched into the air. Beatrice's shoulders moved in tandem with her wings, creating a rocking motion that Sherlock found a bit unsettling. After several minutes, though, Sherlock adapted to the movement and relaxed enough to look around.

The countryside spread out beneath them, snow glittering from the bare branches of the trees. The sun at their backs kept them somewhat warm, despite the chill winter air. The ground below them was devoid of people and buildings, endless wilderness that made Sherlock feel as if he and John were the only two people left in the world.

Sherlock looked over at his friend and was taken aback by the look of contentment on John's face. He wore a small smile, arms spread wide, embracing the breeze as if he didn't have a care in the world. As if there wasn't some maniac out there at this very moment, an unknown menace trying to stop his heartbeat.

Sensing his gaze, John opened his eyes and looked back at Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows at him, let out a whoop, and then nudged Hero into a dive. Beatrice followed suit, and the wind tore at Sherlock's eyes as the ground hurtled ever closer. At the last second, both hippogriffs unfurled their wings, stopping their ascent, and landing fairly smoothly. John laughed as he leapt off Hero's back into the snow.

"That beats a broomstick any day."

The rest of break went by far too fast. John and Sherlock spent their hours exploring the ranch, riding the hippogriffs, helping Clara with chores, or just sitting around the fire in the living room in companionable silence.

On the evening before they were to return to Hogwarts, Sherlock and John walked in the door, shaking snow off their boots, only to find Harry, Clara, and Dr. Watson waiting for them in the entryway.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"When were you going to tell us someone's been trying to kill you?" Harry asked, waving a sheet of paper in John's face.

"What's that?"

"A letter from your friend, Greg Lestrade, saying they couldn't get a match for the hair Sherlock found when someone tried to set you on fire in your bed. But why would we need to know about that?"

"Harriett…"

"No, Dad. John should have told us about this. What's your excuse?"

"It's not that big a deal, Harry."

"Not a big deal! Oh, that's rich. I'd hate to see your definition of a 'big deal.'"

"Lay off."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since November, " John mumbled.

"Jesus, John. How many times have they tried to kill you?"

"Twice."

"What the hell are they thinking, letting you stay at school? You're not going back."

"Yes I am. I knew you would react like this, which is I why I kept quite about it. If I stay here, I put you all in danger."

"That's a risk we're willing to take, John," Clara said softly.

"Well, I'm not. Nobody's going to die for me"

"You are so infuriating. Dad, a little help."

Dr. Watson stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"John, do you really think you'll be safe at school."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, do you agree that Hogwarts is the safest place for my son?"

"Yes, there's safety in numbers."

"But there's also anonymity," Dr. Watson added. He stared at the boys for a moment. "John, you can go back to school, but if something happens you have to let us know. You can't keep this a secret from your us."

"You can't be serious, Dad."

"Harry, I am still the head of this family. John's not a fool. If he says he's safe at school, then I believe him." Harry threw her hands up in frustration and retreated into the kitchen. Clara gave John a small smile and then followed her girlfriend. Silence fell.

"Thanks, Dad," John said, looking at his feet. Dr. Watson sighed.

"Just be careful, John. I don't want to lose you the same way I lost your mother."

"You won't, Dad," John said, hugging his father. Sherlock stared at the furniture, not really sure where to look and feeling very out of place.

"I think I'm going to turn in early tonight," John said, pulling away from his father's embrace.

"Dinner's almost ready."

"I'm not very hungry."

"Alright. Good night, John."

"Goodnight, Dad. Sherlock." Sherlock just nodded at his friend. When John had climbed the stairs, Dr. Watson turned to him.

"Keep him safe," he said, and then he left to join Harry and Clara in the kitchen.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and opened up a textbook he had been reading earlier. The end of this vacation was a bit too domestic for his liking.

Sherlock was still lounging on the couch when the clock chimed midnight. Harry staggered into the room as the chimes faded, one hand in a death grip around a bottle of firewhiskey. She pulled up short upon seeing Sherlock.

"Oh, it's you," she said, but made no move to leave the room.

"A very astute observation, as usual, Harry," Sherlock retorted, figuring he had earned the right to needle her after managing to be polite for so long.

"You're lucky I'm drunk," she replied, taking a long swig.

"Because when you are sober you are so much more intimidating. I thought you had set aside the bottle for good" Sherlock said, acid in his voice.

"I did, but now that my little shit of a brother has some murderer after him, I needed it again." They fell silent.

"How come you haven't caught whoever's trying to do this? Aren't you supposed to be some kind of detective?"

"I don't have enough data," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth.

"Sounds like an excuse to me."

"I don't make excuses, I make deductions, and in order to do that—wait. As much as it pains me to say this, Harriet, I could use your…assistance."

"This may be the alcohol talking, but what do you need?"

"Information. Does John have any enemies? Anyone who would like to see him dead?"

"No. He's pretty damn likeable."

"Well, that was very helpful," Sherlock replied annoyedly. Harry squinted at him from her armchair by the fire.

"Hang on a minute. John may not have enemies, but our mother did."

"Your mother? John never talks about her."

"Yeah, well it's not a happy story," Harry said darkly.

"Tell me, Harry. It could be important." Harry just stared at him. Sherlock grimaced then let out a forced, "Please."

"Since you asked so nicely, how could I refuse? Our mother, Cassandra Brean-Watson, was an Auror. And a good one too. After You-Know-Who fell from power, she put a lot of dark wizards behind bars. And when he was in his prime, she fought against him and his forces. Naturally, this didn't win her many friends with the rest of the Death Eaters. John was 10 when it happened. I was 17. She was out on an assignment. Nothing dangerous, just a routine call to look into some suspicious activity that had been happening a couple neighborhoods over. When they arrived at the house, she and her group were ambushed by a group of Death Eaters. She was killed. The bastards who did it were caught. Now they're rotting in their cells in Azkaban. But that didn't bring her back to us. We survived, but John still doesn't like talking about it. They were very close." Harry put her bottle on the table next to her.

"I may come across as a heartless bitch, but I love my brother. I know you do too."

Sherlock made a noise of protest. Harry waved it away.

"Not like that. Platonically. Whatever you do, don't let him die, Sherlock. Catch this bastard, and make him…or her…pay." Harry finished and left the room.

Sherlock stared into the fire and felt a strange sense of foreboding. Tomorrow they would return to Hogwarts, back into this twisted dance of intrigue and danger. Sherlock knew he would have to do everything in his power to make sure the steps ended in something other than death.

**Sorry for the long delay! My six-week creative writing class kept me pretty busy. After this, only two chapters and an epilogue to go. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed!**


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